But like this—with my hand cupped around his shoulder, and the cradle of his hips pressing against mine—he doesn’tfeel big at all. He feels fragile. He feels like he needs to be wrapped up tight and maybe fed something warm. I want so badly to take care of him right now, my mind is fuzzy with it. Desmond spends every minute of every day thinking about others; taking care of everyone else. Nobody takes care of him.
He shuffles closer and sighs.
“Try to relax,” he requests softly, brushing his palm down my chest in a way that’s probably meant to be soothing, but just gives me something else to worry about.
I’m a daydreamer and fantasizer by nature. I like to read, and have always had an active imagination. As an adult, that talent has provided me with some pretty vivid thoughts about certain people—Troy Nichols and Desmond topping that list. But I don’t have a particularly active libido, and I’m really not a fan a jerking off, so getting hard while thinking about Desmond has not really been an issue. But now? With him close enough to smell; my fingers pressed against his ribs, and his leg slid between mine, I think there is a very real possibility of my body having a reaction. Which, given the proximity of his pelvis to mine, would probably not go unnoticed. I don’t want this to go any further which means my dick needs to not make promises it, and I, can’t keep.
Likely sensing some of the internal battle I’m currently waging, Desmond slides his hand back up my chest and touches his fingertips to my jaw. He moves closer as he does it, face pushing into the crook of my neck as his fingers slowly trace my jawline.
Whatever his intention with the movement, it has the desired effect. My pulse calms as I take a few measured breaths, leaning my head to the side until my ear and cheek are lying on the curly pillow of Desmond’s hair. I wish, for amoment, that we weren’t wearing so much clothing, but immediately reject the idea. If Desmond was anywhere close to me while he was naked, I’d immediately die.
“Are you going to be able to fall asleep?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice. I smile, unseen in the dark room. It feels safe, somehow, knowing my traitorous skin isn’t giving away my anxiety. It’s too dark to see anything at all, and with one sense blinded, the others are on overload. It’s all thin bones, soft curls, and smooth skin. Desmond, Desmond, Desmond.
“Eventually,” I whisper, because, no, I’m no longer tired right now, but I could be once I fully calm down in fifteen minutes. He laughs softly, the puff of air warm against my neck. My toes curl.
“My family court date is next week,” he says after a few moments of silence. His thumb, having finished its exploration of my jaw, is stroking up and down my neck.
The reminder makes my pitiful little caveman raise his head and sniff the air again. The last of my nerves fizzle away as I tighten my hold. He grunts softly and somehow manages to move closer. I’m going to be ruined for sleeping alone after tonight.
“Is that…like, normal court?” I ask, feeling like an idiot. The only court I’m familiar with is the criminal variety they show on TV.
“I have no idea. We had to try mediation first, which was a joke. And then…well, I guess we already had a court date, sort of.” He sighs, nose nudging the underside of my jaw as he shifts. “There was a court thing where all they did was make sure we had lawyers, and provide a timeline. That was when they said I have full custody, per the will, until the final court order.”
“How will this one be different?”
“I guess this is the real one. Like, they already went through ‘discovery,’ or whatever the bloody hell they call it when they’re poking into your business. So, now we go to…trial, I guess.”
His thumb slips below the neck of my shirt, stroking along my collarbone and circling the top of my shoulder. It’s such a gentle, exploratory touch, it feels a little bit like he’s soothing himself as much as me. I wonder how much affection Desmond has been denied over the years, worried it’ll be misunderstood or misinterpreted as something he didn’t want to give.
“I have to admit, sometimes I just sit there in a panic while the lawyer is talking, and miss half of what he says. But I can’t email him later to ask questions, because every single bloody thing is a billable hour.”
“That would be me,” I agree. I’m pretty sure any situation that put me in a courtroom would send me to an early grave. I certainly wouldn’t be as put-together as Desmond—still able to function and take care of Parker; go to work every day and not break down from the stress of it all.
“The whole thing is just…a useless waste of time. Not to mention, humiliating.” He groans a little bit, hips shifting, my shirt pulling up a tad. I probably should have lied when he asked me if I was still tired. Now, I’ve pulled us into a serious conversation, and he too has lost that content, syrupy tone that precedes sleep.
“Humiliating?” I ask, surprised. I find practically everything humiliating, but Desmond is just sosure. I cannot imagine anything making him feel less.
“Oh, it’s just because all the dirty washing is being aired out. My mum was fucking quick to let them know I’mbulimic. And gay, which, you know, is worse than being a murderer.”
Our lovely, peaceful bubble pops, and my stomach clenches in discomfort. I don’t like hearing about other people struggling. It always makes me feel awful for them, which translates into my nervous system making me feel awful. Hearing Desmond so casually mention an eating disorder is pretty much akin to him stabbing me in the stomach.
“Oh,” I whisper. His thumb moves back up to my neck, circling behind my ear. Deciding that maybe it’s time I try a little touching of my own, I slide my palm down to the soft dip between his ribs and hip. “I didn’t know that.”
It probably makes me a fucking idiot that I didn’t figure it out, though. He’d been so concerned when I was getting sick before hockey games, and had even made several comments that had been more personal in nature. He’d been trying to tell me, but I was too caught up in myself to even notice.
“No drama, Jacko. It was a problem when I was a teenager, but not so much now.” Turning his face, he kisses my neck. Every inch of my body burns.
“Because your parents were sort of…terrible?”
He snorts. “Pretty much. I remember feeling so bloody awful all the time, and then one day I just threw up and felt better. For hours afterward, I felt better. So, I kept doing it. Eventually, I was doing it every day, and I started trading new problems for the old.”
“Your parents noticed?”
“Victoria. She got so mad.” He laughs, reminding me once again how much stronger he is than me. This story is breaking my fucking heart, and here he is still able to pluckout the smallest bit of happiness he can from the memory. “Vic was a terror.”
“Did you go to a doctor?” My insides squirm as I ask the question. I never ask people personal questions, because I never know where the line is I’m not supposed to cross. Nate will just tell me things without any prompting, so I’ve never struggled getting to know him. Half of me wants Desmond to keep talking so I can understand all the parts of him, while the other half is uncomfortable hearing and knowing he’d been in pain.
“Yeah. But, anyway, sorry, Bluey. That was a hell of a mood killer.”
